Waiting
by writergal85
Summary: Contains spoilers for Episode 3.3, during which I noticed HTMG placed each of the Turners in separate waiting rooms, alone. What each might have thought while they waited. Rating T, just in case.
1. Shelagh

**A/N: Characters, storylines and some dialogue here does not belong to me, but to Heidi Thomas, the creator of Call the Midwife. Just borrowing them for a while.**

Another groan of pain echoed through the surgery. Shelagh Turner shuffled through the files on her desk and tried unsuccessfully to ignore it.

The cries of women in labor had scored her life for more than a decade, and it had been long time since the sound had truly bothered her. The end result was worth the pain, a young mother had told her once, long ago, when she'd still been Sister Bernadette, cycling through Poplar, delivering babies in all hours of the day and night.

Now she was Shelagh Turner, doctor's wife. Tweed suits had replaced the habit, and the surgery office, not the delivery room was her place. This room held different kind of pain. The torture of waiting. The agony of helplessness.

She'd never given much thought to the fathers when she was a midwife. Back then she'd never seen them for long. They usually only appeared at the end, after the baby was born and the mother made presentable, shuffling into the room, a vague mix of fear and wonder on their faces. They started the day as men and ended it as fathers, thanks to their wives, and to her. Childbirth was a magic trick they couldn't quite believe.

Now the fathers were always before her. Some – the longtime fathers, the ones to whom childbirth was no longer a mystery – read the paper with bored indifference while they waited. Most others smoked, wringing their hands and pacing with pent-up anxiety. The fathers were her patients now, and she soothed them the best she could, with offers of tea and words of reassurance: _It was all perfectly natural, their wives were in good hands, Dr. Turner and the midwives were excellent at their jobs._ A few cried, unable to stand the sound of the screams, and she'd learned the best thing to do in this situation was to pretend not to notice and discreetly push the box of tissues closer to the edge of her desk.

Naturally, as she cared for them, she began to imagine Patrick in their place. Despite his medical training and knowledge of childbirth, she doubted he would be one of the indifferent ones. No – he would pace and fidget and probably smoke his way through at least two packs of Henleys. And God help any young nurse or secretary waiting with him. They'd be peppered with so many questions and concerns they'd be calling for the gas and air.

She couldn't imagine Patrick in the delivery room with her, unless there was some urgent medical need. He might ask to be there – he could be fiercely protective when it came to her health – but if she wanted him to wait outside, he would. He never pushed her to do anything that made her uncomfortable. He only offered her the choice, and let her make a decision. With her, he was patient. For her, he would stand outside and wait.

It was all part of her dream, her dream of telling him she was pregnant, her dream of carrying his child, her dream of seeing the wonder on his face when she handed him their son or daughter for the first time. She didn't long for the discomfort of pregnancy or the pain of childbirth – no one did – but a baby with the man she loved? That would be worth almost anything.

But that dream was fading. She could feel it disappearing as months went by and her cycle stopped, but none of the other symptoms of pregnancy appeared. She'd watched Patrick carefully as he'd opened the letter from the London this morning. She'd steeled herself for any hint of disappointment from him, but he was very good. He'd given her the bad news briskly, as a doctor would, but remained hopeful, as a husband would. He was always so hopeful. She was the one who prayed, but he was the one who never gave up.

There was another cry of pain from the surgery and the woman's husband, a Mr. Baker, rose to his feet and started to pace. This labor was proving to be a long one, but he hadn't once left the surgery, not to go back to work or for lunch or even to get cigarettes. He would wait, too.

"Would you like anything, Mr. Baker?" she asked softly. "Some tea, perhaps?"

He looked at her wide-eyed, startled out of his worry. "No, thank you, ma'am. Does it – does it usually take this long?"

She nodded and gave him a sympathetic smile. "Sometimes."

He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing. "I just worry about my Kathleen is all."

She recalled the way he'd led his wife into the surgery earlier in the week, his hand supporting the small of her back, and felt another part of her dream wither away. "I'm sure she'll be fine, Mr. Baker."

When Patrick had suggested the exploratory surgery to determine if there was anything that would prevent them from conceiving, Shelagh had hesitated only slightly. She hated the idea of spending any more time in a hospital; she'd had enough of that in the sanatorium and she didn't like leaving Patrick and Timothy to fend for themselves again. But if something was wrong, she wanted to fix it. She didn't want to let go of all of her dream, not yet.

A blood-curdling scream cut through the air and sent a chill through her heart. Mr. Baker turned, his face twisted in pain and shock.

"Is that my Kathleen?" he demanded. "It sounds like she's being torn limb from limb."

"I know you're worried, but it's all part of childbirth."

"You're telling me that's normal?"

"It's the most natural thing there could be," she said, with a small smile, but she couldn't seem to summon up her usual brisk confidence.

Mr. Baker ran his hands through his hair. "Jesus wept."

Shelagh pursed her lips and went back to her filing. Her heart went out Mr. Baker, it really did; she knew his frustration and anger weren't meant for her. She knew what it was like to feel helpless and futile. She knew how it felt, when your spouse was hurting or disappointed and there was nothing you could do alleviate that pain. She knew now, how it felt to be outside of the room. She knew what it was like to wait.

It was suddenly quiet, and then there was another cry, a different one: the thin, reedy wail of a newborn baby.

Mr. Baker's hands left his face and he turned, eyes fixed on the surgery door. Shelagh had seen that smile of relief many times before; he'd run into the surgery the next minute if she didn't stop him. She came out from behind the desk.

"Doctor will call you when your wife's ready." She pointed him toward a chair. "I'll fetch you a cup of tea, Mr. Baker. Congratulations."

The new father reluctantly sat down, but he didn't remain still for long. His body vibrated with nervous energy, and suddenly he shouted – "YES!" – and leapt from his chair, startling her so much she nearly dropped the teacup in her hands. She'd seen many fathers celebrate in this waiting room and usually it made her smile. Usually it made her think of Patrick, and what he might look like when their child was born.

But this cry of joy cut straight through her, sending a jolt of pain so quick and sharp it brought tears to her eyes. Because when she saw Mr. Baker's sudden relief and happiness, all she could think was_, I'll never be able to give Patrick that. We'll never have that._

She made Mr. Baker his tea. The kettle rumbled, and then whistled its readiness. The hot water slowly bled the tea leaves of their color and steam rose from the cup, fogging her glasses. By the time she'd delivered tea to Mr. Baker, her tears had dried and another bit of her dream had curled up, shrunken and dead, to be blown away by the first brisk wind.


	2. Patrick

Patrick Turner sat in a chair near the hospital bed and watched his wife sleep. He rarely got the opportunity to observe her unguarded and peaceful in slumber. Shelagh was usually awake before him, and on the nights he crept home late after a call out he was often so exhausted he fell asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. She looked younger without her glasses. Young and full of dreams.

He knew the question Shelagh would ask him when she woke up, and he still hadn't figured out exactly how to tell her the results of the exploratory operation without breaking her heart.

They had discussed the procedure beforehand, and had agreed Patrick would hear the news from Mr. Horinger first, and then tell her when she awoke. Good or bad, Patrick wanted to be the one to tell her, to comfort her or to share her relief.

Truthfully, he was also being a bit selfish. He wanted to hear the results first, so if it was bad news, as he'd suspected from his first conversation with Ted, he would also have time to grieve and express his disappointment before she woke up.

So he'd waited in Ted's sitting room, flipping through old copies of _The Lancet_ and not reading a word, smoking cigarette after cigarette and trying not to look at his watch. It wasn't often Patrick found himself among the anxious loved ones left in waiting rooms, while their children, parents or spouses battled illnesses, gave birth or underwent surgeries. But he seemed to be waiting and worrying more and more of late – when Timothy contracted polio, when Shelagh, then Sister Bernadette, was sent to the sanatorium, when his first wife, Margaret, went into the hospital for the last time. He still hadn't gotten used to feeling of waiting, and helplessness that came with it. He wished for Shelagh's patience, and for just a little of her quiet faith.

He'd just sent up one silent prayer, when he saw Ted appear at the door.

"How is she?" he said, rising immediately to his feet, a copy of _The Lancet_ falling to the floor.

"She's fine. She came through it perfectly," Ted said, placing a reassuring hand on Patrick's shoulder. "She's resting now."

"And the operation? What did you find?"

Ted hesitated. Patrick recognized that look – kind smile, but dead behind the eyes. The blank mask of professionalism. The face of bad news.

"Tell me," he begged. "I promised Shelagh I'd be the one to tell her."

He listened as Ted explained about the lingering effects of the TB, the scar tissue on Shelagh's pelvic organs, and the effect on her fertility. All things Patrick knew from reading case studies. All facts. He'd always found comfort in facts and in medical knowledge, because if you looked hard enough, in right places, you could find the answer. But what was the answer now?

"The chance of her ever conceiving and carrying a child to term is very small," Ted finished.

Patrick ran through everything Ted had just told him in his head, searching for a scrap of hope. "But there is still a chance?"

Ted frowned. "It's very small, Patrick."

His throat felt tight, and he let out a shaky breath to stave off the tears. "Can I see her?"

"She'll be asleep for a while –"

"Please, Ted. I'd rather sit by her side than in here."

He nodded. "Of course."

Ted led him back to through the maze of hallways to her room. "I am sorry," he said as they reached the door.

Patrick sighed. "Thank you, at least, for agreeing to see her." He extended his hand and Ted shook it briefly.

"I only wish I could give you better news." Ted paused. "You know, I never thought you'd remarry after Margaret passed."

Patrick's mouth twitched into a half-smile. "Neither did I. But Shelagh…" His eyes drifted to the small window in the door. He could just make out her pale face and gold hair curling against the pillow, and his heart caught the way it always did when he saw her. He didn't know when he'd first felt this way about her, but he remembered day he'd been able to put a name to it. The dim sunlight that had filtered through window of the clinic's kitchen then was the same sunlight that fell on her face now. "I think it took us both by surprise," he said.

"Go," Ted said, his face softening in sympathy. "Sit with her."

Patrick crept quietly into the room and stood by the bed a moment. Shelagh looked almost too still, and he ached to touch her, just to feel her warm hand in his, as an assurance that she was all right. But he didn't want to wake her before she was ready – before he was ready. He watched her chest rise and fall with each sleeping breath; that was enough.

He settled down in a chair to wait, and to think over what he would say.

Patrick had never been good with words. He'd fumbled through every letter he'd sent her at the sanatorium, caught between what he wanted to confess and what he was allowed to say. He stumbled again when they'd met on the road, so shocked by the sight of her out of the habit and _what that meant_ that he could only follow her lead when she said she was "certain." He'd even had Timothy help out with the proposal.

No, Patrick was no poet, even when it came to love, but Shelagh didn't seem to mind. They communicated as much in looks and small touches as they did in words. And somehow, she understood his fumblings, just has he understood her silences – how they weren't a wall, shutting him out, but a door, welcoming him into a place of peace.

The matron came in twice to remind him that Shelagh was in a very delicate state, was not to sit up under any circumstances, and would need to rest at home for at least a week – with no housework. He assured her that he was doctor and he understood, but she didn't seem convinced. "Husbands," he heard her mutter as she left the room a second time. "All the same."

If Shelagh were awake, she might have giggled at that. Patrick adored his wife's smiles. Even in the earliest days, before he called it love, he remembered trying to coax a smile from her. Seeing her grin just seemed to make everything – his worries over Timothy, the stress of his medical practice, his grief over Margaret's death – a bit lighter.

Lately her smiles had been less frequent, her mind clouded by anxiety over their situation. But she'd given him a genuine grin when he'd insisted on waiting today.

"I am not leaving you alone," he'd said.

"I'm never alone. I'm married to you," she'd replied, and he couldn't help but kiss her.

The last time TB had played havoc with their lives, he hadn't been allowed to keep vigil at her bedside. He hadn't even been able to enter the building with her. He'd had to leave her to face those months of treatment alone, because he'd had no choice in the matter.

But today he did. And today, and every day after, he would always choose to stay wherever Shelagh was. That was his privilege now.

As Patrick watched her sleep – simply because he could watch her sleep – he thought, not for the first time, _She married me? I can't believe she married me_.

Her love for him, and for Timothy, and the family they'd formed together in such a short time felt like an astonishing, unexpected gift. Every day with her and Timothy was a gift.

And if – he coughed and swallowed the lump rising in his throat – if they couldn't have more children, Patrick knew he would still always feel he'd been granted more than he deserved.

That's what he would tell her. He didn't know the right words yet – he never did – but he knew what he felt. He could only hope his love would give her the reassurance she needed.

He saw her stirring in the bed, her eyelids beginning to flutter as she slowly awoke. He rose from his chair, eager to greet her.

"That's my girl."


	3. Timothy

Timothy Turner crumpled another sheet of notebook paper and threw it across the sitting room. He was supposed to be writing an essay on "a person he admired" for school, but everything he wrote was rubbish.

Composition was his worst subject. Shelagh usually helped him out. She'd talk through the assignment with him while she made dinner, and somehow, in the midst of their conversation, he would figure out exactly what he wanted to write. She never told him what to say, but she always made the words come easier.

But Shelagh wasn't here. She'd had to go to the hospital for few days for an operation. They'd told him at dinner the other week.

"It is something to do with your TB? Is it back?" The potatoes he'd been eating turned into a cold lump in his stomach and he didn't feel hungry anymore.

Shelagh's eyes widened. "No, Timothy. I –" She looked at his dad and pursed her lips.

"This is just like a check-up," his dad said, reaching across the table and squeezing Shelagh's hand.

Timothy looked from his dad, his mouth set in a grim line, to his stepmum, who was pushing food around her plate and not looking at either of them. There was something they weren't telling him.

"But you're not ill?" he asked.

"I feel perfectly well," she said briskly. "This is just a check-up to make sure everything is well, like your father said."

"We'll have to keep house for a few days, but I reckon we can manage, right Tim? Just us two?" his dad said.

"Right," he said. They'd done it before – been "just us two," – for more than a year after Mum died, before Shelagh. In some ways it wasn't bad; his dad's cooking might not be up to snuff, but he was a lot less fussy than Shelagh or Mum about keeping things clean. But the words "just us two," still made his chest feel a bit tight, the way it had when he'd been recovering from polio. He pushed the now-cold potatoes around his plate.

"Timothy." The softness in her voice made him look up. Shelagh gave him a gentle smile, some of the usual sparkle back in her blue eyes. "It's only two days, and then I'll be back. And I don't want to come home to find this house – especially my kitchen – a mess, young man," she scolded playfully.

Timothy grinned, feeling lighter. "It's not me you have to worry about. It's Dad."

They all laughed at that and the conversation turned to funny recollections of the first time his dad had invited Shelagh over to the house, and how he'd ended up making such a mess of the kitchen they'd spent more time cleaning up after dinner than eating.

But Timothy couldn't stop thinking about the worry in his stepmum's face when they spoke of the operation and the TB. He remembered she hadn't felt ill before she went in the sanatorium the last time, back when she was still Sister Bernadette. She'd helped him win the three-legged race, then he'd seen her bicycling around Poplar for weeks after that, and he knew she'd been helping his father and the nuns with the X-Ray screenings. She'd been fine, until one day she wasn't. And then she was gone.

The idea that Shelagh might actually be ill again and not know it made the chill settle back in his stomach as he finished his homework and got ready for bed.

"You've been quiet tonight. Are you all right, Tim?" His dad asked while he was helping him remove his calipers. "Legs not hurting again?"

"No. Dad?"

His dad looked up from the buckle he was struggling with. "Yes?"

"Shelagh's all right, isn't she? She's not – " He swallowed the lump in his throat. He was 11 now and too big to cry. "It's not like Mum, is it?"

"What?"

"You said she's not ill, but she doesn't look –" He couldn't think of the word – she still seemed happy and well, not the way you acted when you were sick, but she didn't seem like Shelagh. "What if it is the TB? What if she has to go back to the sanatorium?"

His dad let out a long sigh, like he'd been holding his breath. "Shelagh and I – we're trying – that is, we'd like to have a baby – for you to have a brother or a sister – and this is just to make sure everything is all right. That it's possible." He smiled.

"Oh." That hadn't been what he'd expected and he felt a little relieved. "What if it's not possible? Does that mean Carole will come back? Or we'll get a baby like her?" The few short days they'd sheltered the infant had felt like Christmas morning; Shelagh had seemed even brighter than usual and she'd hardly ever let Carole out of her sight.

His dad looked serious again. "You know Carole has her own family now. And Shelagh and I haven't discussed adoption yet. We're taking this one step at a time, okay?" He finished removing the calipers and helped him swing his legs into the bed. "No matter what happens, Tim, you know we love you? And we'll be all right – all three of us?"

He nodded. "I know. 'Night Dad."

In the following days, Tim remembered what his dad had said and tried not to feel anxious. But when Shelagh came in his room early on the day of operation to wake him for school before they left, he'd clung to her, suddenly gripped by the irrational fear that she'd never come home.

"It's all right. I'll be all right. I'll see you in a few days," she'd said, her voice cracking only slightly. She hugged him a few seconds longer and kissed the top of his head. "Now, be a good boy and get dressed. You don't want breakfast getting cold."

The next two days, while nothing like the long, sad time between Mum's death and Dad's engagement to Shelagh, held their own kind of silent gloom. Shelagh wasn't a loud person – in fact, she was probably the quietest of the three of them – but Tim had gotten used to her greeting him when he came home, sitting with him while he did his homework and talking with him about school until Dad arrived. When he got home from school, he made noise to try and fill the emptiness – banging the kitchen cupboards as he look for the biscuits, and stomping through the rooms –but that didn't seem to help. The house still felt tense, like it was holding its breath, waiting for the person that made it a home to return, so it could relax again.

When his dad came home for dinner, his face tight and drawn, Timothy worried something had gone wrong with the operation. "Is Shelagh all right, Dad?"

"She's fine, Tim. She has to stay overnight at the hospital, and she'll have to rest for a few days when she comes home. But she'll be fine."

"But if she's fine, why are you sad?"

His dad pushed aside the fish and chips he'd brought home for dinner; neither of them seemed to have an appetite tonight. "We're both just a bit sad right now, Tim, because – do you remember what we talked about before? About wanting a baby?"

Tim nodded gravely. "You said you wanted to find out if it was possible." Then it dawned on him. "Is it not possible?"

"No." The word came out quiet, like a sigh.

He didn't know what to do or say. When Mum had died, Timothy had sat by his dad while he'd cried and hugged him, but he didn't seem like he wanted to cry now. He just seemed worn out and distracted, like he had all those months when Shelagh had been in the sanatorium. Then Tim had just worked harder to help around the house, since his dad seemed to have his mind on other things.

"I can help. When Shelagh comes home, if she needs to rest, I can help with – stuff," he said. "I can help so she won't be as sad."

His dad looked up and gave him the first real smile of the evening. "You are always a help to me and to Shelagh." He paused. "Do you remember the talk we had just before I asked Shelagh to marry me?"

Tim nodded. "You said she wasn't trying to replace Mum, just be a different sort of mum." He hadn't really known then what his dad meant, and he still didn't know now. "She is kind of like Mum. I mean, she helps me out with my homework and cooks dinner much better than you and she talks to me like Mum used to." His voice got quiet. "And when – when I got sick, she took me to the hospital and stayed with me until they wouldn't let her anymore. Because they said she wasn't my mum – and she isn't Mum exactly – but she's..." he trailed off. What was the right word for someone who wasn't your mum, but who took care of you and made you feel better when you were ill or sad and always listened to you and loved you? "She's Shelagh and I wanted her to stay."

His dad nodded. "It might be good – Shelagh might like it, if you reminded her of that – of how much she means to us – when she gets home. It might make her feel a little less sad."

The next day, Timothy skipped Jack's invite to play afterschool and came straight home to wait for Shelagh. He knew his dad would be bringing her back soon and he didn't want her to come home to an empty house; that might make her even sadder. He went through the rooms to make sure everything looked clean – Dad had said she'd be tired and wouldn't want a mess – and then went to do his homework in the sitting room, where he could see the clock. He finished his science review and arithmetic, but was still struggling with essay when he heard the click of keys in the front door.

He looked up and saw Shelagh walk in. She moved slowly, and she was paler. But then she smiled at him and Tim felt all the tenseness from the past two days leave his body in a rush. He stood quickly, crossed the room and hugged her; he didn't know what to say. He was just glad she was home.

"I missed you," she said.

He pulled back and returned her smile. "Missed you too."


End file.
